


Voluntary

by missbeizy



Category: Glee
Genre: Injury Recovery, M/M, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1366690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt comes home for Winter break and volunteers through an outreach program to spend time with Blaine Anderson while he recovers at home from being assaulted.  Kurt is 19, Blaine is 15.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voluntary

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: underage sex, references to assault (not explicit).

Kurt comes home for Winter break his freshman year, and the email from the youth support group that he'd volunteered for during his junior and senior years of high school is waiting for him when he turns his phone back on after landing. He'd emailed them before midterms to let them know that he'd be home and available for them—the holidays are a rough time for some of these kids, and Kurt has been looking forward to coming home, but he's sure that he isn't going to want to spend his whole break with his family, and volunteering will be a great excuse to get him out of the house.

The sorts of teenagers he usually ends up with have sad stories: kids who are being home-schooled because their school environments are abusive. He's only had one or two assignments with teenagers who have actually been physically bashed, and those usually entailed fist-fights or being shoved around, rather like the ways that he had been in school, so he can not only relate to these kids but offer them solid advice on how to cope with the results and move on with their lives.

The profile attached to this email, however, is more severe than his usual. Sheila, his contact, tells him that they've only put this one on his plate because it's so local, just five minutes from his family's house, in the same upscale development that Rachel's parents live in, with a young man who is six months into a recovery from a severe assault. He's finally out of his casts and splints but is still bedridden, and while his parents look into private schools with strict no-bullying policies he's stuck at home. They think that he is beginning to withdraw and would benefit from the company of someone who he can really talk to, someone who isn't a doctor or a therapist or immediate family.

Kurt's nervous about it. This is more than he's used to. But it's Christmastime, and if he'd spent six months recovering from having the crap beat out of him, he'd start to go stir crazy, too. The email assures him that the young man has received and is continuing to receive solid therapy, physical and otherwise, and that his parents just want him to have a break from them while they figure out what to do about school. They'd like him to spend a few hours a day hanging out with the boy, talking, watching television, and helping him with his meals—he still has trouble with his motor functions, and is limited in what he can do while his body finishes healing.

The house is gorgeous, but Kurt knew it would be based on the address. Blaine Anderson's parents are nice people, though they are a little more formal than Kurt is used to. He can tell they are embarrassed and somewhat unsure, but they seem to love their son and are very enthusiastic in greeting Kurt.

"We can't tell you what it means for Blaine to have another gay man to talk to right now," his mother says, eyes misted over with tears. "We can only do so much. He's a good boy, but I'm sure he's sick to death of us."

Kurt smiles politely and replies, "I'm sure it can't hurt. You made the right decision, ma'am."

He goes into these meetings with few preconceived notions. He does whatever he can to help these kids realize that there is life after bashing and bullying, that the world isn't solely comprised of the sort of people and things that had brought them to where they are right now. That there is hope, goodness, and opportunities to be happy and healthy, despite it all.

But he walks into Blaine's bedroom, which has been converted to a half-hospital room, and those round hazel eyes light up like candles in his direction, and something in his belly twists like an elevator going down too fast. He isn't prepared for the vitality in those eyes, especially not after what he's been through.

His olive-toned complexion goes pink when they shake hands. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hummel," he says, and Kurt smiles. What kind of teenager talks like that nowadays?

"Call me Kurt," he replies, sitting in the chair beside Blaine's bed that has been set there for him.

"We'll just leave you two to get to know each other," Blaine's father says, and they leave room.

Kurt takes in the room as politely as he can. It's obvious that they have money to spare, but he doesn't let that mean anything in particular. He's glad that they have the resources to make Blaine comfortable while he recovers.

The initial conversation is easy—they have a lot in common. Despite the fact that they hadn't attended the same middle or high schools, they are both local, and it's easy to talk about the town, the environment, the people, and how hard being gay in Lima has always been. Blaine seems effected by his experience but is recovering well, and talks about wanting to get back to school, a new school, and making new friends, with only a small quiver in his voice. He evades from time to time, and Kurt tries to stick to topics that don't make him go quiet.

The fact that they are both gay doesn't automatically mean that they were going to hit it off; Kurt has met with many a teenager who'd wanted nothing to do with his chatter about Vogue.com, or trashy reality television, or affordable but effective moisturizing products. It just so happens that Blaine does, and eats up everything that he says about his life in New York like a puppy let at the kibble bowl for the first time. The fact that Kurt is living the life that Blaine has always dreamed of having for himself makes their introduction an instant success, and Kurt is relieved.

He emails Sheila and lets her know that it went well, and Sheila says that Blaine had been equally enthusiastic to his parents about Kurt, and so they schedule a three-day-a-week three-hour-a-day visiting schedule.

At first, Kurt is immune to the way that Blaine looks at him, beaming and eager and affectionate. Blaine is not the first young man to look at him that way, and Kurt is comfortable in the role that he is here to play. He's not bothered by the little crushes that his kids often develop on him.

They watch movies. Kurt reads him passages from Vogue magazine. He helps Blaine get through his meals without dropping things or making a mess, though Blaine manages mostly on his own, despite his hands shaking and eventually cramping up. Sometimes they listen to music—Blaine is especially fond of vintage vinyl records—and sometimes they just talk. Sometimes Kurt just sits in the comfortable armchair beside Blaine's bed and spaces out while Blaine watches him or dozes off.

He has to admit, what had looked like a difficult assignment is turning out to be one of the most comfortable ones that he has ever had. He likes Blaine. In fact, he finds himself fantasizing about what it might have been like for him had he had Blaine, or someone like him, during high school, or even growing up. He imagines that they would have been very good friends. They might have even been more than that.

One afternoon he wakes up from a brief nap to find Blaine watching him, head tilted on his upright pillow, lips parted and eyes round and wet and so, so sweet. Kurt expects him to say something silly like, you're so pretty when you sleep.

Blaine says, "You snore. Did you know that?"

And he can't help but laugh. "Gee. Thanks."

"I think it's adorable. I think you're adorable," Blaine says, near breathlessly.

Kurt smiles that polite, do-not-encourage smile that he has perfected over the years. "That's very sweet of you to say. Thank you." He pauses, and then decides to give a little. "You know, you're one of the nicest people I've hung out with, doing this."

Blaine shifts in the bed. "I was pretty angry for a while there. Not so nice."

"You had the right to be as angry as you felt. No one should have to go through what you were put through."

"Funny thing was, it never helped. Being angry, I mean. I just—decided to stop, one day. But then I stopped talking about it, too, and that—that didn't help, either."

"Do you like your therapist?"

Blaine nods. "He's nice. I mean, it's—good, I guess. But I kind of want to—I dunno. I screamed a lot about never going back to school again, but now all I want to do is go back to school. I guess I feel dumb now."

"Not at all," Kurt says, letting their eyes meet. "You're getting better. And you should get back to school. Get straight A's. Sing solos. Show the world that you don't intend to let it get you down. There's so much more out there, Blaine, and so many people who would kill to prove that to you—you just have to want it. Reach for it."

Blaine's eyes soften on his, and Kurt feels his cheeks warm.

What is it about this kid that makes his chest ache so badly? Is it that they are so alike? He's only four years older than Blaine; it isn't as if relating is impossible. But Blaine doesn't remind him of himself, not exactly, so it isn't that sort of relation.

"Right now I'd settle for being able to eat a sandwich by myself," Blaine admits, blushing, and chuckles under his breath as Kurt grins.

"Okay, well. I can't blame you there. It's got to be frustrating not to be able to do for yourself."

"It's awful. I think I'm okay, I feel strong, and then everything just starts to clench up and shake."

Kurt watches him talk, and really listens, and feels so sad for him. He knows that Blaine has come a long way in physical therapy, but sometimes healing is down to time and repetition, and there's only so much he can do along the way.

There is a heavy pause, and then Blaine confesses under his breath, "My mom walked in on me trying to masturbate last week. I think I might actually never feel anything down there again."

"Oh, god," Kurt blurts, and then laughs into the back of his hand, shoulders shaking. His cheeks go hot. "Oh my god, Blaine, seriously?"

"Give me a break," he replies, red-faced but laughing, "I can't talk to anyone about this but you!"

The fact that Blaine has cut ties with everyone at his old school and only has his parents and a long-distance brother that he has a difficult relationship with to talk to worries Kurt, but—he is here, and that counts. It isn't the first time that a teenager who he's been working with has wanted to talk about sex, either.

"I'm not, um, qualified to really advise you there, but have you, um—have you tried like—just—" He stops, feeling overheated, all of the sudden.

Blaine is trying to do that thing where he looks disinterested but is in fact very, very interested. "Tried—what?"

Guy-to-guy advice is much easier when the guy wanting the advice isn't the high school boyfriend you wish you'd had, Kurt thinks.

"Like, rubbing? On the bed?" he says, fast and embarrassed and barely audible.

The blush on Blaine's cheeks rushes to his nose and ears and he looks away, his eyelashes fanning across his cheeks. "Um. Yeah, uh—um, I have, still, the hip—there's a fracture, it—it kind of, it hurts, still, sometimes."

"Oh," Kurt exhales, blinking rapidly. He forces his gaze to stay on Blaine's face and not—go anywhere else, as it seems to suddenly want to do. "Oh, that's—sorry."

He feels stupid. Also, vaguely turned on, which is a big fat fucking no, and makes him want to leave to room, but—right now, that might not be the best idea. He subtly adjusts himself beneath the magazine that's resting across his lap.

Blaine's eyes, those gorgeous, currently frighteningly clear, hazel eyes, drag across Kurt's face, his body, and back up again. He swallows, and licks out across his bottom lip, and then plays nervously with the empty juice box on his lunch tray.

The tension is so thick that Kurt can hardly breathe around it, and he doesn't know what to do—he doesn't think he went far enough astray to cause this all by himself, but Blaine makes him dumb. He likes Blaine so much that he often forgets his place.

It eases by degrees as they begin to talk again, but Kurt has to admit that it's never quite the same after that. Everything, from the way that Blaine lights up every time he walks into the room, to the way that they skirt innocent topics as if they were not-so-innocent, to Blaine's confession that he's never been with a boy, to Kurt giving in and talking about the aborted attempt at a boyfriend that he'd made with Adam, it all just becomes, and stays, personal.

He can't shake it. They've connected, and it's only been a week, and it kind of freaks him out.

 

*

 

Spending the holiday apart doesn't do much to distance them, either. They resume their appointments the week after, and watching Blaine almost vibrate out of bed with excitement at the stack of vintage records that Kurt had rescued from his dad's basement as a last minute Christmas gift makes Kurt so happy that he could burst.

They eat gingerbread and listen to music. Kurt migrates to the foot of Blaine's bed without thinking about it, helping him rearrange his bedding so that he can sit up next to the record player and change the records himself, with only minor assistance.

He's always so careful around Blaine, physically, knowing how many injuries he'd sustained, and how careful and slow his healing has been, so he's surprised when Blaine pats the bed next to him.

"Come sit? It's okay, I don't mind."

Warning bells go off in Kurt's head, but he finds himself mentally muffling them with pillows and doing as he's asked.

They sit side by side by the headboard, right next to the record player. Blaine is having a good day—his pain levels are low and he looks happy, even managing to sit forward a little, more relaxed in posture than Kurt has ever seen him.

For the first time, Kurt finds himself glancing warily at the door. He's sure that Blaine's parents wouldn't much like him on Blaine's bed, at least not this close to their son, and he feels guilty. He also feels like his pants don't fit, but that—that he can't really do much about.

Blaine is just so—amazing. Sweet and vibrant and handsome, god, like, classical movie handsome, with his Cary Grant hair and his compact body. Kurt has no idea how he's managed to stay so fit while stuck in bed most of the time.

Unfortunately, Blaine catches him glancing at the door. Kurt only realizes just how transparent the gesture had been when Blaine's hand tentatively finds his on the bed.

"It's okay," he says, inching closer. "They won't come up."

"Blaine," Kurt begins, voice taking on that I-am-older-and-wiser-than-you tone that Kurt normally hates. Also, it's not true in this case; he's being extraordinarily immature at the moment.

"You drive me crazy," Blaine whispers.

He visibly gathers his courage and surges close, pressing their mouths together.

It's wet. It's off-center. He tastes like gingerbread.

Kurt opens his mouth and moans, and kisses back gracelessly. His skin is on fire and his mouth is tingling and his nerves are misfiring and shit fuck he is screwed. He doesn't even realize that Blaine's jaw is in his hand until he feels the vibration of Blaine's answering groan against his fingertips.

"Shit," he breathes, tearing their mouths apart with a wet smack. "Shit, shit—"

Blaine knows he's panicking. He takes the hand that's on his face and, breathing heavily, drags it beneath the blankets and against the front of his pajamas, where he's standing up, hard as a rock.

Kurt shudders. "B-Blaine, no."

"Please," he whimpers, hips shifting. "Please, please, please, I want you to touch me."

"Your parents are—and we shouldn't—"

But his cock is literally throbbing under Kurt's fingers, and it feels brilliant. It feels—like nothing ever has, not even the way that Adam had felt, as experienced and lovely as he had been. It feels like fireworks under his skin. It feels right.

"I can't do it by myself," Blaine whispers, undoing the drawstring on his pants while Kurt's hand lies heavy and still over him. He takes Kurt's wrist and guides Kurt's hand past the loosened waistband to touch him, naked and hot and pulsing. "It's been so long. Please—if—if you want to, even just a little, please—"

All it takes is one, slow stroke up the shaft, one little bead of pre-come smearing across Kurt's fingers, one desperate moan and he's gone.

"Lie back a little," he says, and Blaine's body goes limp with relief on the pillows. He doesn't know what to do with his face, so he leans in and kisses Blaine's slack mouth, again and again, while underneath two layers of blankets and one pair of flannel pajama bottoms he carefully, methodically, jerks Blaine off.

A cock in his hand shouldn't feel like the boundaries of his body are giving way to formless pleasure, but it does. He pants against Blaine's lips, sucking kisses like air from them as he speeds up, the noise of his dry palm on Blaine's swollen cock filling his ears. It's like a whisper, making his skin hot and tight, making him feel as if he's free-falling. He can't even think.

Blaine trembles through it, his soft little belly heaving against Kurt's forearm, and then surprises Kurt even farther by having the polity to say, "I'm c-close," when he begins to tense. Kurt can't bring himself to care about how fast this has been—he would have liked to take more time, but Blaine is falling apart under him, pupils blown, face flushed, and his own desires seem unimportant.

Blaine's skin is soft and he's—kind of hairy, and Kurt likes that more than he'll ever admit, the thickness of it on Blaine's thighs and stomach, the coarse wiry patches around his cock and balls.

"Oh, god," he moans, and Kurt feels his dick throb.

Kurt reaches over and snags a tissue from the box on the bedside table and lowers it to where his hand is busy jacking up and down, and just as he positions it over the swollen, damp head Blaine comes, biting down on Kurt's shoulder to muffle the sobbing moan as his body twitches and he soaks the tissue with pulse after pulse of thick release.

And then he begins to babble.

"I'm—oh, god, I can't believe I made you—I'm so gross, I'm usually, you know, less—hairy, I wax religiously but it's just not possible since—and I didn't shower this morning and, oh, god, Kurt, I am so, so sorry."

Kurt laughs, and silences him with a kiss. For the first time, they pull back and stare at each other, and Kurt can't stop touching Blaine's face and hair, can't stop pressing their mouths together. With every kiss, it feels better, sweeter, easier.

"Shut up," he says, and puts his hand back down there, to stroke Blaine through the oversensitive aftershocks, because he sort of can't stop himself. "Shut up and enjoy the orgasm, honey."

"Gnh," Blaine says, twitching in his hand.

The next day, Blaine tells him to lock the door as soon as he arrives, and he knows from a single, heated glance that this isn't going to be a one time thing. Blaine isn't wearing a pajama top, and Kurt's brain is already buzzing with desire before he even shrugs off his messenger bag.

"You didn't—yesterday, you didn't—I didn't return the favor."

Kurt swallows around the clamp of his windpipe. "That's not—I don't need anything from you. I just—I helped you out, and that's—okay, it doesn't have to be more than that."

"I want it to be more," Blaine confesses, and Kurt's eyes drop to his tight little nipples, and he knows without needing to stare that Blaine is squeezing himself beneath the covers. "I can't do much, but—maybe I could just—see, for now?"

Fuck.

"You want me to jerk off in front of you?" Kurt babbles, voice breaking.

"If you—if you want to."

It's like falling sideways into a parallel dimension where pornographic acts are made sweet by Blaine's temperament, where Kurt just—does things, like he's some kind of expert on sex. He's undoing his skinny jeans before he can even think about it, and lifting himself from the slit at the front of his briefs.

He's been half-hard just thinking about Blaine all morning; what's the point in denying it?

"God, you are beautiful," Blaine sighs, and Kurt watches his hand move under the covers. "You're—" He blushes. "You're so big, and you aren't even—all the way—"

"Shit," Kurt moans, stroking himself with eyes half-lidded as Blaine talks.

Every day Blaine is usually in a different position on the bed when Kurt arrives—his parents help him rotate every few hours—and today he's more or less flat on his back, with a few pillows under his neck. Kurt watches him touch himself until his hand gives him trouble and he has to stop. The chair is so close to the bed that Kurt's knees touch it, and—there is something so remarkably, filthily intimate about sitting there with Blaine watching his hand move on his cock.

He gets there faster than he has in years, and fumbles for a tissue, only to have Blaine lick his lips and say, "My mouth is fine. If you—if that might work."

Kurt stops in mid-stroke, clamping down on the rising orgasm. "Jesus, you can't say things like that, I—"

But he can tell how aroused Blaine is by the idea. He's humping against the heavy blankets thrown over his body, panting softly, his face a tense map of arousal.

"When you first starting visiting me," he says, eyes glued to Kurt's erection, "I used to think about you just—undoing your pants, and—c-coming in my mouth."

He has to stop entirely; it's too much. The arousal is making him stupid, making everything feel sharp and sloppy and uneven, and as soon as Blaine says that he wants it, wants it like he's starving and it's food. His neediness is contrasted perfectly by Blaine's sweetness and he wants it.

He feels confident as he stands, his cock jutting in front of him, Blaine's beautiful, open face below him on the mattress. The way that Blaine's mouth opens willingly makes him feel dizzy; he doesn't have to crouch, the bed is very tall, and without any further consideration he feeds his cock into Blaine's mouth.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he hisses, as the wet warmth closes around him. "I'm almost there already."

Blaine sucks him like an eager virgin; wet and sloppy and full of teeth, but he's too close to even mind. He pulls back, thumbs Blaine's jaw, presses his lips until they spread, swollen and pink and so fucking wet, the perfect circle, takes himself in hand and quickly strokes himself. He presses the head against Blaine's lower lip, breathing sharply and heavily, knees shaking, thighs trembling, unable to look away from the sight, and then Blaine's tongue drags around the wide, fat crown, and he loses it, shoots strand after strand of thick come into Blaine's waiting mouth.

His vision goes blurry, but not so blurry that he can't watch Blaine moaning, sucking the head, swallowing his come with hungry gulps.

"Oh my god, that was amazing," he moans, and Kurt collapses into his chair.

This is quite possibly the dumbest thing that he has ever done.

The next day, Blaine is lying on his stomach when he arrives, and he locks the door without needing to be asked, and within two minutes he's kneeling beside the bed, his tongue in Blaine's mouth as they awkwardly kiss through the strange arrangement of limbs that Blaine's recovering health requires.

They kiss, and Blaine humps the mattress until his pelvis starts to hurt. This doesn't stop Kurt from sitting up on the edge of the bed to stroke his naked back, to massage the edge of his hips to stroke the ache until it eases. Blaine is watching him from where his cheek is resting on folded arms, over his shoulder.

"I can't—do anything with a lot of movement or stress on my pelvis," he confesses, cheeks flushed red.

"I know, honey. I don't want to hurt you."

He kneels sideways and starts gently kissing the back of Blaine's neck, the thick, delicious rise of his shoulders, down the length of his spine to the swell of his gorgeous, round ass, where he dares to bite down on the curves, just to make Blaine laugh.

"Can I take these off?" he asks, nibbling along the elastic waistband. Blaine's back is a map of blood-flushed skin and goosebumps, and despite his earlier bravado Kurt can tell that now that they are actually being intimate he is nervous. He has scars that Kurt has never seen, and he isn't comfortable with his inability to groom as well as he used to before he was injured. Kurt can tell that he bathed this morning, and wonders if that had been anticipatory.

"Um. Wh-what do you want to do?"

"Make you feel good. What can I say; today's position is very inspiring." He smiles into the sweet curve of Blaine's back, nuzzles just there against the curve of his cheeks.

"Oh," Blaine moans, shifting under his mouth. "That's, um."

He squeezes the plump cheeks that he has found increasingly more irresistible with each passing day, pressing them together and then tugging them apart, the waistband of Blaine's pajama bottoms inching down to tantalizingly expose the crack of his ass.

Burning all over, Kurt kisses the spot, digs his fingernails into the fleshy mounds and breathes hot over Blaine's skin, "God, I want to taste you."

"Okay," Blaine whimpers.

It takes every bit of restraint Kurt has to roll the pajamas and underwear off of his legs without rushing, without having him lift to far up, without jarring his bad ankle or the healing gash on his calf. Kurt manages to work a single pillow under his hips, then, with the gentlest of easing, and finally he's comfortable, displayed like a gourmet meal, those fat, round cheeks quivering under Kurt's fingers.

"You are gorgeous," he says, gently spreading Blaine open.

He doesn't actually comment on the hairy factor driving him insane with lust—Blaine is just as hairy on his ass and between his cheeks as he is on his legs, and Kurt's mouth waters as he gets to kiss those plush cheeks, until Blaine is breathing heavily and shifting under him, and only then does he nose in between, drag the tip of his tongue from his sacrum to the pillow of his balls.

"Oh my god," Blaine moans.

"Mm, that's it, honey," he murmurs, kissing the hot, musky skin, feeling the hair beneath his lips and god, the heat of him is insane.

He takes his time, kissing and licking slow, even stripes, until Blaine's brown pucker is clenching and unclenching, and then he stops to kiss it, hard, pressing deep, and flicks his tongue tip in eager, jabbing licks, eyes drifting shut from the pleasure of it.

"Kurt, god, K-Kurt."

He draws back, keeps Blaine spread with his thumbs as he digs his tongue into the furled little hole until it gives way—Blaine's ass spasms around his tongue once or twice before he licks inside. He can feel Blaine's body go tense with surprise, and he closes his lips in a hard, sucking kiss around the rim while licking deeper with the shaft of his tongue.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," Blaine chants, pelvis jerking.

"Wanna come?" Kurt asks, feeling between Blaine's body and the pillow with his left hand. "Wanna come around my tongue, sweetheart?"

It's awkward, but he manages to wedge his hand in between Blaine's cock and the pillow, and god, it's soaked with wet spots already, and Blaine has hardly moved.

"Please, please, need to, need to, god, squeeze me, just—touch, just, please—"

Kurt fists him in a sort of backwards jerk, cups the shaft as well as part of his balls, and lets him gently hump down as he resumes sucking at Blaine's rim and shifting his tongue in and out of his slippery, tight hole at the same time. He comes moments later, ass and thighs and pucker clenching in the most delicious way; Kurt can feel his balls cinch and release, can feel the flood of come soak the pillow under his hips, and he makes gorgeous, breathless noises as he lets go.

He kneels up over Blaine. "Okay? No pain?"

"A little bit, but, I'm okay, I just—need to be still."

He looks amazing there on the bed, sweat slick on his lower back, shoulders rushed with blood, his hair a puffy, frizzy mess where it's rebelled against the gel that his mother helps him put on every morning. His ass is glorious, shining with spit and swollen up around its wrinkled rim.

Kurt unbuttons his pants and straddles Blaine's thighs without putting any weight on them, panting as he wrangles himself out of his underwear. He needs to come, badly.

"Can I," he groans out, squeezing his fist up the shaft of his cock, "god, can I come on you?"

"Yes, yes, god, yes."

It takes a dozen tugs, and his eyes go blind for a second, but he manages to streak Blaine's ass and lower back and pretty little hole, and he can't resist rocking down and in, fucking his cock between those dirty cheeks, smearing his come into Blaine's skin and feeling the hot, spastic clench of those lush cheeks around his dick.

"Oh my god, your ass is ridiculous," he moans, stopping. He can't do that without hurting Blaine and he knows it.

He cleans Blaine off with a warm washcloth and helps him back into his pajamas.

 

*

 

At some point, they do actually begin to speak again. To watch movies and listen to music and share lunch trays. But Kurt's break is almost over, and they are both suddenly and completely ravenous for each other. Kurt had thought that Blaine's recovery might make indulging impossible, but they always seem to find a way.

The first orgasm is usually rushed—Blaine is either half-naked and half-hard by the time he arrives, or even starts without him, so that all Kurt has to do is get between his thighs and take him in hand and he's spurting, and then they have time for a second go around, usually an hour or so before Kurt leaves.

One afternoon Kurt has Blaine's cock in his mouth for a change, gently easing the squeeze of his cheeks and lips down again, and again, and again, not wanting to put too much pressure on his pelvis, and the need to go carefully, to go slow and angle his mouth just right, makes it even more amazing than the blowjobs that he's given in the past. It's almost—glacial, the pace that he uses to work Blaine's dick in his mouth, and it's so intense when he spasms and comes, belly heaving, thigh muscles rippling, sobbing into the pillow he slams over his face to drown out his cries.

They've almost been walked in on twice, now, and Kurt is as terrified as he is aroused.

He gently lets Blaine out of his mouth with a wet slurp, throbbing everywhere.

He wants more. But it will have to wait.

The next day he arrives prepared, condoms and lubricant of his own choosing in his bag. Blaine's parents have been especially attentive, but he can't stop himself; he needs to get closer to Blaine. They only have a few days left.

When he fishes the condoms and lubricant out, Blaine's eyes go wide.

He rushes to say, "They're for you. I—I think if I—-I can sort of, sit up over you?" And then he backtracks, "If—you want to—fuck me." He's been thinking about it all week and now that he says it like that he realizes that maybe Blaine isn't ready—until Blaine's eyes go even darker and he pushes the blankets off of his legs—he's already naked underneath.

"I—please, yes," he says.

Kurt strips off his clothes as he kisses Blaine hungrily, trying not to press against anything sensitive, but it's so difficult to not just—take. He pants into every wet pass, fumbling with the condom strip to get one detached, with the lubricant bottle to get the cap to unstick; he's seeing white, he's so turned on. It's been ages since he's been with a man to this degree of intimacy, and his ass is already clenching, it feels so empty, and his jaw knows all too well how thick Blaine's cock is, how fat that head, how good it's going to feel to push against it and have it slide in—

He straddles Blaine's hips, then goes up on the balls of his feet, crouching frog-style as he applies a dab of lubricant to his hole, and a slightly larger dab to Blaine's latex-clad cock. He palms Blaine's soft belly, all the way to his nipples, flushed and needy as he steadies Blaine below him.

"Feel so good, want you so much," he moans, rubbing the thick erection against his ass. "God, you are so perfect. So beautiful, Blaine, never met anyone like you, just want to make you feel good—"

"Oh my god, don't stop—"

It burns, sitting down all at once, especially since he has to keep his weight off of Blaine at the end. Thankfully, Blaine isn't porn star big, just thick, and Kurt savors the stretch the whole way down, stopping just short of Blaine's pelvis, balancing on the balls of his feet and his hands braced on Blaine's belly, nowhere near his ribs.

"Fuck," Kurt hisses, anus fluttering around the intrusion. "Fuck, you're wide. God, fuck, yes, so good." He lifts, then falls, lifts, then falls, until the burn is gone and it's just blunt pressure and his soft cheeks jiggling around Blaine's cock.

"Could, could you," Blaine pants, "Turn—turn around, maybe? If you—move that way, it'll feel better, I mean, for my—"

"Oh god, yeah, just—" He lifts, and turns carefully—that way, he can go down on his knees without putting pressure on Blaine's pelvis in an upward motion, and—oh. Blaine's hands, trembling, wrap around his cheeks as they sink down, split in half by the shaft of his cock.

"God," Blaine moans, squeezing him. "God, that looks—amazing, oh god, move, please."

It's an keen exercise in restraint, keeping his weight up and off Blaine, but at least his ass can leverage against Blaine's belly, and he can just—fuck himself, careful deep sinks of Blaine's cock inside of him, making him feel so full and warm and open.

It's always hot in Blaine's room, and Kurt sweats through it, feeling the moisture of sweat gather under his arms and down his back and neck. The careful rhythm, gently working his ass up and down the shaft of Blaine's cock, is hypnotic, and he falls into it, feeling his body loosen. His cock keeps slapping against his belly so he takes it in hand, and leans the other on the bed between Blaine's thighs, fucking himself back on Blaine's cock while Blaine holds his ass in his shaking hands.

As always, there's noises from downstairs, making Kurt's heartbeat spike.

"Your mother has no sense of timing," he gasps, bouncing, clenching around the cock inside of him.

"I'm going to come if you don't slow down," Blaine whines, toes curling.

"Oh, fuck, yes, come in me."

Blaine whines and lets go almost instantly, and Kurt can feel the base of his cock pulse as he fills the condom, and Kurt just takes himself in hand and jerks off all over the bed, pressing deep, pulsing around Blaine's shrinking erection as he comes, white popping behind his eyelids.

They cuddle as best they can after cleaning up, and Blaine keeps laughing and pressing his face into Kurt's shoulder.

When it's cooler and quieter, he says against Kurt's sweaty neck, "Wish I could do half the things you do to me."

"Mm," Kurt hums, licking over Blaine's nipples, "you do plenty. And it's not as if you're always going to be like this. You'll get better, and then—"

Blaine cards his fingers through Kurt's hair. "And then?"

Kurt freezes, halfway through saying, and then we can do everything. Because he's flying back to New York on Sunday, and they both know it. Their chemistry is off the charts, and despite the age gap Kurt has had more fun and things in common with Blaine than he has any of his peers at NYADA.

He smiles, presses a kiss against Blaine's mouth, and takes Blaine's phone from his bedside table. "And then, I give you my phone number. And we stay in touch. And I visit you on breaks, and we—keep having fun, if you want, or we can be friends, if you want, and when you're ready to head off to school—we'll see?"

"I feel like I should have known you sooner, Kurt Hummel," Blaine says, smiling, as he takes his phone back.

"Who knows?" Kurt asks. "Maybe we can make up for lost time."


End file.
